


Safe House

by firelord65



Category: Black Widow - Fandom, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier - Fandom
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Memory Loss, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Russian Super Spies getting together to Kick Ass, Somewhere in the realm of canon compliant depending on the canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-25 10:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1645031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firelord65/pseuds/firelord65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only a few weeks after the events taking place in DC, Natasha and Bucky end up at the same abandoned KGB safe house. Neither is fully certain of the other's intentions, but both agree that so long as their goals are aligned, they can play nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Off the Bus

**Author's Note:**

> General FYI that my canon knowledge is partially firsthand, partially internet researched, and almost certainly a bit knit-together.

_No new messages_. Natasha’s phone blinked softly in the darkness as she slid it back into her pocket. Three weeks had passed since she bid Steve, Sam, and Fury adieu at the Director’s headstone. Those few weeks had been a constant dance in and out of the press’s gaze, trying to stay out of the limelight.

Three weeks of hell.

She was used to this kind of misery –mindless trudging through shouts and misplaced anger thrown in your face with reckless abandon. People scare easily and the public was still reeling in shock at the thought that their best bet for protection against things that go bump in the night had been infiltrated by, well, things that went bump in the night. Blaming the sheep for being startled by wolves wouldn’t get anything accomplished.

It would have been nice if they had been a little _less_ scared. Natasha had been forced to pick up no less than four cover IDs in an attempt to stay remotely under the radar. The fakes got her a few days of quiet – you only needed a driver’s license and a bogus social to get enough credit to pay for dinner and some fresh clothes - but her face was still on national news and that wasn’t something she could just throw money at to go away.

In the end, she’d retreated to a remote corner of New York, taking a night bus to bring her out of Rochester and into some tiny-ass town near a state forest. Her methods weren’t entirely random though, and she hoped her hunch had been correct. Running away from her international acclaim by finding some random cabin in the woods wasn’t Natasha’s goal. She was searching out a safe house that she hadn’t used before, one that couldn’t possibly have been in SHEILD’s database when she released it into the wild of the internet.

Hopes and hunches weren’t the Widow’s preferred currency. This entire trip ate at her nerves, a continuous bubble of unease sitting in her stomach. Idly, the spy wondered when she had gotten so comfortable that being undercover was effecting her at all.

Since DC, since New York, Stark Industries, Budapest… Her time at SHIELD had mellowed her, taken her away from her true nature. She frowned, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. Complacency and comfort. The sudden change from a dependable – though still dangerous – lifestyle to one on the road shouldn’t have shaken her, yet here she was, nerves jangling in her stomach.

Natasha Romanoff swallowed hard, working through long-memorized mental tricks to throttle her anxiety into submission.

The bus lurched to a stop. Time to get out and go on the move. Natasha patted her pockets quickly, verifying that everything was still readily accessible. Wryly, she wished for the _n_ -th time in these past three weeks that she had some backup. Slinging her rucksack onto her shoulder, Natasha slunk off the bus and onto the street, ignoring the driver’s grunt to “Git home safe.”

A black widow has no home, only a place to recover and recuperate before jettisoning back into some mission. That was her destination, no more, no less.


	2. Ghostly Inhabitants

Thirty minutes and one hot-wired sedan later, Natasha pulled up to the driveway of a house that looked like the last time it had been lived in a president had just been assassinated. No one had followed her “borrowed” car, but then again, not many people were awake at 2AM. Caution was still her number one word though, and she exited the car only after first checking that there had been no motion nearby for several minutes. The rucksack she’d brought from Rochester was quickly swung up on her shoulder and she took out her handgun from the center pouch. Safe house or not, a Soviet spy didn’t let her guard down.

Natasha moved quickly to the side door, trying to remember if this was the home with the key hidden under the eaves or the one where one just had to jiggle the lock side to side to open it. Her mental search paused as she stepped onto the low porch. The floorboards under her feet didn’t creak. If anything after years of neglect the boards should have been _screaming_ from her body weight.

She carefully kept her breathing steady, controlling her concern with painfully honed practice. Someone had been here. Cleaning up the place. Making it more livable. Had she just travelled all this way to a safe house that wasn’t truly safe anymore?

“Anyone home?” Natasha managed to croak out of her throat. It was the first thing she has dared to say since getting on the bus and her nerves once more threatened to overpower her training. She directed her gun carefully in front of her, scanning the area around her in slow motions. Nothing stood out. The house loomed silent, complacent.

“Guess it’s just me,” she muttered under her breath. Again she wished that Steve was here to back her up. Or Clint. Or even Tony for that matter. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, making one final quick circle before approaching the side door. This was a safe house, her internal mantra chanted. Once she was inside, she could relax.

Moving decisively, she jiggled the lock on the door, four times back and forth. After the fourth click sideways, something shifted inside and the door opened. The hiss that escaped her lips was very nearly a nervous laugh. She’d remembered correctly. Or guessed correctly. It didn’t much matter which. All that concerned the spy was the satisfied realization that she’d avoided needless digging around in the eaves that would have kept her hands busy and her attention distracted.

She slid into the house with little resistance, again surprised at how silent the floor was under her feet. The door closed behind her and Natasha’s free hand slid along the wall as she searched for a light switch. Her fingers brushed across hard plastic and she froze. It was pitch black in the hallway and her reflexes were all but screaming at her to keep moving slowly, to wait until she was certain that nothing was triggered around that little plastic switch.

So her fingertips danced around, checking that the screws holding the faceplate on were still flush and that nothing as simple as fishing line was wrapped about the switch. _Nothing_. Satisfied with her search, Natasha sucked in a tiny breath and flipped the switch on. The yellow light of the incandescent bulbs seared into her eyes. She squinted against the sudden brightness even as she began taking note of her surroundings.

Empty hallway. No photographs hanging in the entryway. Walls roughly one armspan apart, leading into a small, empty kitchen. Table and chairs visible, the hallway light dwindling before reaching the next section of the house.

No noticeable belongings around. No trash on counters. Uninhabited.

And yet, her instincts were screaming _not right, not right_.

She slipped her rucksack to the ground, shoulders rolling back as she readjusted. One quick glance verified that the door was secure behind her – the now-ancient locking system had been designed to re-lock after every entry – and Natasha proceeded to examine the next room.

Her motions were systematic, taking her through the house from the living room adjacent to the kitchen to the small bedrooms and bathroom on the main floor. There was nothing to indicate anyone was currently living in the home. Natasha frowned as she descended the basement steps, her firearm still at the ready.

The light from the hallway didn’t extend far into the basement, barely reaching the edge of the concrete steps. Natasha hovered on the last step, trying to call up a mental map of the basement. There should have been a light by the stairs, though a quick swipe of her hand found no switch.

Natasha could feel her pulse pushing against the collar of her jacket, some instinct screaming that _this was not right_. Before her nerves could get the best of her - _her_ , the Black Widow, worried and nervous? - she took the last step down and entered the dark room. The musty, damp air itched her eyes. Dangling inches from her face was a thin chain.

Of course.

Her free hand clicked the light on with a sharp tug, flooding the room with a yellow-orange glow. The basement wasn’t finished, just an open space with uncovered beams and no proper furnishings. The lightbulb she had turned on was one of several spread through the basement, all on pull-chains and dormant. Her focus narrowed on the opposite corner where a dark form lurked.

Keeping note of her escape route - the lit stairwell that led back to her bag, her car - Natasha slowly advanced through the basement, her steps carefully planted. As she moved around a support column, she realized the dark shape was glinting dully. Only when she was a few feet away did she realize what her prey was.

Standing ominously in the corner of the basement was a water heater.

Natasha sighed heavily and relaxed, dropping the pistol back to her waist. Naturally, this was exactly the time for the light behind her to extinguish in a crunch of glass shards. She whirled around, lifting her pistol and firing off three shots all in the direction of the rectangle of light filtering down from upstairs.

Something - or more likely _someone_ \- rushed towards her, their form blurred in the dark of the basement. Natasha threw herself to the side, desperate to change location while she adjusted to the sudden darkness. Dodging didn’t dissuade her attacker who mirrored her motions, striking at the hand she held her pistol in to knock the firearm flying.

She ignored the crack as it discharged, instead focusing on re-directing her attacker’s blows away. A fist came at her face, which was dodged easily enough. However the elbow thrown at her chest was unexpected and tossed the Widow back several feet. Grunting, Natasha’s feet skittered until she had her momentum under control. Her attacker still came forward, arms down by his sides and only moving to take a defensive position when she launched herself at him.

Staying low, Natasha darted forward, pushing off from the ground to loop an arm about his neck. She didn’t stop there, though, her torso twisting to bring him to the ground by way of her body weight. He grunted and the pair went down, a frantic twist of limbs.

Her arm was ripped from his neck as he rolled. Natasha grimaced as her back slammed into the concrete floor, a hiss of air escaping between clenched teeth. The darkness was presenting less of a problem as she adjusted, but the identity of her attacker was still impossible to discern in the blackness. More importantly, though, was the fight to gain the upper hand.

One hand gripped around her throat, leather bound and airtight. Her eyes widened and she bucked against the chokehold, her knees slamming into the man stretched over her. It was enough that she could sneak a breath, fight against the blackness that threatened to overtake her vision.

He’d given her an inch and she was going to take a mile, forcing him up and over her head with another lurch of her hips. Natasha rolled, coughing involuntarily as she forced herself back to her feet. Her attacker was on all fours, catlike in his reflexes.

There was a sense of familiarity to their fight. An echo, a ripple, that permeated the air as they circled one another. Natasha threw herself into the air, legs twisting in an attempt to force him to the ground in what Steve teased as her signature move. Her opponent snarled - the first noise he’d made this entire time - and moved with her, slamming her bodily into one of the support beams.

Reflexively, Natasha released her vice grip and let her body fall to the ground. He didn’t buy her fake-out, throwing a fist at her face with a growl. Something cracked - probably his knuckles - and she rolled further away. Servos whirred and clicked as the man pushed himself upright.

Blood rushed from Natasha’s face at the noise.

“Barnes?” she whispered, uncertainty coloring her voice. His reaction was another furious strike, slamming into the void where her shoulder had just been. Natasha rolled onto her forearms, scrambling to get back on her feet and put some distance between herself and the deadly assassin she’d stumbled across.

Before she could dart away, vice-grips encircled her forearms and yanked her flush against him. Bucky, James, Winter Soldier - it was impossible to tell just who she was dealing with. Grunting, she tried to flip him once more, but it was like moving a mountain. The only thing her flailing accomplished was cause him to shift his grip, one arm tight across her stomach and the other - the infallible metal one - around her throat.

They stilled, each sizing the other up. Natasha could feel her pulse against the chilled metal at her neck, his hot panting breaths against the top of her head. She twisted her head, trying to escape his iron grip.

 _Ha_.

The man behind her only tensed further, keeping her from moving at all. “Barnes, you don’t know me,” Natasha started, her voice gruff from the pressure at her throat. “Well, you kind of do - Odessa, DC - but that’s not the point.”

Somehow the metal around her neck tightened even more. “I’m just trying to say, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m a friend of Steve’s,” she whispered. The room darkened even more, her talking running out her already limited air supply to nil.

This was probably a mistake. Everything was a mistake. Trusting SHIELD, burning her covers, hiding out in rural New York. Hell, ever since she took Clint’s goddamn devil’s bargain she had been in hot water.

She could feel it, the cold wave washing along her extremities as the oxygen deprivation overtook her. A last ditch flail against his locked grip proved too much for her screaming muscles. Her hand slapped uselessly against his metal arm, two taps that stung her hand rather than actually having an effect.

Two taps was enough, though, and Natasha toppled from his grip back onto her own two feet. Her hand cupped her throat, massaging the tender skin there as air rushed back into her lungs. She didn’t dare let her guard down - no matter how much she was screaming inside for a rest, a break, a pause - and forced herself to face the man who nearly killed Nick Fury.

He didn’t look like a trained killer, not in this moment. His face was twisted in confusion and something resembling recognition, and his arms hung loosely at his sides, utterly passive. “I know you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “You’re…”

“The redhead from Odessa,” she supplied. “You shot me.”

His head was shaking before she finished talking, his forehead furrowing as he chased some other memory. The air still felt tense, crackling with unease as Natasha watched the man in front of her. Her eyes flicked in the direction of her abandoned pistol. Too far away to be grabbed, she calculated, though it seemed like there might be a chance to get out of this without bloodshed.

Barnes exhaled slowly, his fists curling and uncurling. “We met before. Before that _mission_ ,” he growled the word, his lip curling in disgust for a second before continuing. “There were others like you, like me. But you were the favorite. The model success.”

He looked down at his arm, human fingers ghosting over where she had tapped just moments ago. Natasha could only stare, watching a wave of emotions course over the man in front of her. Whatever he was talking about, it was strong enough to have gotten through whatever conditioning still clouded his memories.

“I never worked for HYDRA,” she said quietly. “You must have me confused.” The tension had dialed back a notch and Natasha settled back into a more casual stance. Trust wasn’t the word she’d use to describe what she was feeling, but there was something there other than raw animosity.

Barnes licked his lips, his head tipped to the side even as he scanned her head-to-toe. “Not HYDRA,” he explained. “KGB. Russia.”

That sent shock through her, a cold pulse of fear all the way to her fingertips. “You were a HYDRA agent,” Natasha said. “The KGB didn’t work with HYDRA. _I_ never worked with HYDRA.”

“Then why am I at a soviet safe house with an ex-soviet assassin speaking fluent Russian?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two is up! Eerily enough in the same day! This is where I admit that I had chapter one posted on AO3 about a year and a half ago and decided to revamp it all while posting chapter two. Let me know what you thought about the fight as well as the first actual conversation that Bucky and Nat have had (or is it? Buck seems to think otherwise…)


	3. Authority

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Bucky work out a tense truce and deal with an unwanted outsider.

Natasha stared openly at the man in front of her, her mind caught in a feedback loop as his words - his perfectly accented words - rang about in her head. 

< _ Why am I at a soviet safe house with an ex-soviet assassin speaking fluent Russian? _ >

For all his question implied, Barnes sounded confident in his recollection. He wasn’t asking her how he knew her mother tongue or why they’d been speaking in it for an entire conversation without her noticing. He knew - he  _ thought _ he knew - why he was there. 

It was Natasha who was left floundering in the dark, searching her memories to discern what was true and what wasn’t. It simply couldn’t be true; she would  _ remember _ having worked with the most notorious assassin of the twentieth century. Or, you know, a guy with a metal arm and a muzzle. Barnes had to be mistaken; she knew the truth.

“I don’t have an answer for you. Sorry,” Natasha said tersely. She switched from Russian back to English, reflexively avoiding addressing that part of his question. “There’s a lot of intel floating around right now, so I’m not surprised that we both ended up at the same place. I thought this place was off HYDRA’s radar. Guess not.”

Barnes tipped his head just so, listening raptly to her explanation. He didn’t look convinced. “I guess you could be right. A lot of secrets are out in the open,” he admitted. He had followed suit and made the switch back to English, the words somehow less assured. “I still think you’re wrong about us.” 

Nat hummed, wanting nothing less than to forget the entire conversation and go running back to Rochester. There had to be a budget motel that wouldn’t question a fat stack of cash to give her a room without a credit card. The desire to turn tail and run wasn’t one she was used to entertaining, but this had been one royally fucked up series of months. 

She eyed the man in front of her carefully. He didn’t  _ seem _ dangerous anymore. Frankly, he appeared to be just as tired as she was. Bags hung heavy under his eyes and stubble coated his chin. “You’re not going to bring me in… are you?” He asked the question with reservation, his chin practically against his chest as he scoured the ground for answers. 

Gods above and below, Natasha was immensely grateful that Steve wasn’t here. The man’s moral compass wasn’t entirely true north when it came to his old friend, but that might not be enough to keep the man from dragging Barnes back with him to DC. Natasha on the other hand, well…

She wasn’t entirely certain where her moral compass was pointing. She had no love for the American government - not while they were trying to blame literally everyone except themselves for the fall of SHIELD - but she wasn’t certain if that translated into harboring an international fugitive. 

“You’re in luck, Barnes,” Natasha chuckled. “I’m not exactly on the straight and narrow path myself. Half my ‘career’ is floating around the internet, just begging for extradition. I have no intention of calling in any kind of agency to take you in. ” 

He nodded slowly, still nervous. The elephant in the room had been dealt with, but they were still watching each other cautiously. Trust was not something brokered easily with words alone.

“Are you hungry?” The question caught Natasha off guard. It was so  _ normal _ , so  _ human _ . It wasn’t something that you asked of the person you were just fighting for your life against. 

Annoyingly on cue, her stomach grumbled loudly in response. The last hot meal she’d had was somewhere near Waterloo while she was waiting for the next bus. “I would have said no, but somehow I don’t think you’d quite believe me now,” Natasha replied wryly, the ghost of a smile on her lips. 

Barnes didn’t respond at first and she worried that the tension between them had tipped back towards distrust rather than peace. His face slowly changed from impassive to amused and a single chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Probably not,” he admitted. 

Natasha took this moment to fetch her dropped pistol, her motions controlled though not overly so. She didn’t want to spook Barnes, but equally she didn’t think he’d appreciate being handled so carefully that she was walking on eggshells. Once the firearm was back in her palms, she quickly slid the safety on and tucked it in her waistband. Not exactly the best spot, but she didn’t have a holster on - sitting on a bus for hours on end was bad enough without thick material cutting into your shoulder blades. 

Politeness aside, Natasha didn’t miss the way that Barnes watched her handling her pistol or the twitch of amusement that crossed his face when she stuck the weapon behind her back. “After you,” she quipped, gesturing towards the bright upstairs. She would be glad to be out of the dark. 

Barnes had no apparent issue going up the stairs first. With their truce, he had no qualms with having her at his back. If he was thinking anything like she was, he was giving her the chance to prove her intentions. She found herself deeply appreciating the gesture. 

Once upstairs, he turned towards the kitchen with single-minded determination. Natasha followed behind him, sinking into one of the wooden chairs. Her eyes dogged him, watching as he yanked open the pantry door and pulled out a pair of thin plastic bags bulging with canned goods and other non-perishables. Natasha raised an eyebrow, surprised. She’d anticipated the safe house to have been stocked with canned goods, for sure, but these were clearly fresh-bought from the brightness of their labels. 

“Ran out two days ago,” Barnes said by way of explanation when he spotted her curious expression. He started opening up cans and dumping their contents into a pot which had materialized on the stove. 

Natasha hummed, watching as the ex-assassin slowly pieced together his canned stew. From what she could see, it was some kind of corned beef concoction. Soldier food. A hot mess of vegetables and proteins meant to keep you going with little care for flavor. “So you’ve been here since…” Her words faltered for a moment as she realized she didn’t have a safe point of reference. “Early April?” she asked, deciding to err on the side of caution.

“You mean since your friend leveled seven city blocks with three helicarriers?” he replied. “Or did you mean since you tried to garrott me with that very nice fiberwire?” Barnes didn’t even look up from the stovetop as he spoke, his attention still focused on his cooking. 

Her fingers tapped against the wooden tabletop as she continued figuring out the enigma that was James Barnes. “Fine. That’s exactly when I’m talking about,” she admitted quietly. “Did you-”

She stopped talking as soon as she heard it. A car door slamming just outside the kitchen.They both looked at the kitchen window with the same rapid head twist, Barnes’ hand gripping a chef’s knife underhandedly. 

Natasha lurched from her seat and pulled the dusty, yellowed curtain just enough to peer outside. A police car loomed in the front yard, its engine idling as the officer made her way towards the front door. 

Panic coursed through Natasha’s veins, spurring her into action. They had seconds at best before the officer would be at the door. The adrenaline rush pushed her past that fear into the almost numb point of complete clarity. 

“Barnes, give me your jacket. No, wait, your shirt,” she whispered. It wasn’t a suggestion - it was an order. She turned from the window and stripped off her own shirt, entirely focused. “Stay here and just keep cooking. Don’t let them see your arm.”

He growled something under his breath that sounded like “this isn’t my first rodeo,” but it was muffled by the henley he was pulling over his head. He threw it at Natasha, who tugged it on without glancing which part was the front. It didn’t much matter for the illusion she was crafting.

Right on cue, the policewoman started knocking on the front door. “Police, open up!”

“Oh, just a second,” Natasha called out breathlessly. “Honey, have you seen my pants?” She looked over at Barnes, rolling her eyes. The ex-assassin frowned at first but he eventually caught on, his frown turning to a smirk. 

She toed off her shoes and kicked them down the hall, making sure they were good and out of the way of the front door. Her hand raked through her hair, further disheveling it. Satisfied that she was as bedraggled as possible - at least on a time limit - Natasha unlocked the front door and pulled it open.

“Problem, officer?” she asked, leaning against the edge of the door languidly. The pistol in her waistband shifted and pressed uncomfortably into her back, but she maintained the sleepy smile on her face. Everything had to look just so if they were going to persuade the cop to leave. 

The police officer started before regaining her composure. “Uhm, well yes actually. We received a call about potential shots fired near your residence, ma’am,” she explained. “We wanted to make sure that everything was alright.”

Natasha blinked once, twice. “Shots fired?” she parroted back. “Sorry, but we haven’t heard anything.”

She’d miscalculated slightly. The officer squinted and leaned slightly to peer past Natasha into the house. “Could your… friend have heard something?” The curious woman asked. “It won’t take a minute of your time.”

Natasha’s smile faltered, but she soldiered on. “He’s  _ ah _ , not decent,” she countered. “And honestly, we haven’t been listening to what goes on around us. We’re kind of wrapped up in our own little world.” Her slight blush and lip bite would go a long way towards suggesting just what they might have been doing. 

The officer didn’t seem deterred. If she wasn’t currently trying to avoid attention, Natasha might have appreciated the woman’s scrutiny. “I can wait,” she offered, a blasé smile plastered across her face. 

Natasha twisted to look back where Barnes had last been standing. The man was nowhere in the kitchen, the stovetop of stew simmering away unattended. “Hey Tad, put some shorts on and get out here,” she called. Internally she prayed that he’d been smart enough to not come out without a shirt as well.

Of course she didn’t need to worry. The assassin stumbled out from what might have been a bedroom with a hoodie on, his hands tucked inconspicuously in the pockets. He was still wearing his boots - no fugitive with half a brain would take their shoes off if there was a chance they had to flee - but otherwise he looked very much the part of a well laid boyfriend. 

A dazzlingly brilliant smile splayed across his face. “Babe, who’s taking you away from me?” Barnes crooned, swaggering over to the two women. He ‘noticed’ the cop at the door and his smile faded. He was playing every bit of a bewildered young man. 

“Officer, what can we do for you?” he asked, letting his voice turn more gruff. Natasha felt him sidle up behind her, his non-metal arm gripping the upper doorframe in a display of protective assertion. 

If the cop was phased by this, she didn’t show it. She simply repeated her question about hearing gunshots in the night, to which Barnes barked out a bit of laughter. “If someone’s shooting a rifle near here, we haven’t heard them. Damn poacher’s probably long gone regardless. I’m sure whatever deer or coyote or whatever has run off,” he answered smoothly. 

His tone left no room for further discussion, nor did his slowly tensing posture. Natasha cut in before he could push too hard. “Like I said, we’ve been a little busy to listen for potshots in the night,” she murmured. “If we hear anything, I’ll be sure Tad calls it in.”

She felt his free hand move to rest just on her lower back, inches from the grip of her pistol. If the cop didn’t get a move on soon, there was no telling how he was going to act. She would never have predicted that he would have been able to smooth over the situation as easily as he had, but it seemed his nerves were fraying. 

Natasha couldn’t really blame him.

Finally the officer folded her notebook closed and tipped her hat to wish them a good night. Natasha flashed her one more dollish smile before closing the front door with a snap. Sighing, she turned back around to face Barnes. “That was a close one,” she huffed. “I thought she was going to ask us for carry permits and count every piece of ammo on the property.”

Barnes snorted. “Just be glad she finally left,” he grumbled. Without another word, he went back to the kitchen to his unattended stew. Natasha trailed behind, returning to her perch on her chair in the kitchen. With her shoes off, she could cross her legs comfortably and lean over the table to rest her chin on her hands. 

She watched him work for a few minutes, picking out chunks of potato that had gotten burned to the bottom of the pan while they dealt with the cop. He didn’t seem upset, just irritated by the loss of stew. A few more minutes of idle stirring and cursing under his breath later, Barnes finally clicked the stovetop off. Two mismatched bowls were pulled from a cabinet, wiped hurriedly with a towel, and served up with piping hot stew. 

Barnes shoved one over to Natasha, stew sloshing over the edge. He sat down on the opposite end of the table, one foot propped up on the chair. He hunched over his stew and said nothing, shovelling the food into his mouth with great enthusiasm. 

Natasha hid a smile behind her spoon before starting on her own food. The taste was nothing to write home about, but it certainly wasn’t the worst meal on the run she’d ever had. Barnes’ eyes raked over her carefully, watching intently as she went back for another spoonful. When he realized he’d been spotted, the soldier quickly looked down at his own bowl.

“So,” she murmured between bites. “You’ve spent three weeks here? Alone?”

It took him a second to finish chewing and swallow, but Barnes replied with a curt “yep.” He offered no additional information and Natasha almost wished they were back in the basement. He was more talkative then. 

Silence fell once more between the pair and Natasha steadily worked her way through the stew. Barnes finished before she did, his ravenous appetite evident from the scraping of his spoon as she savored every last drop. 

“There’s got to be more leftover in the pot,” Natasha commented idly when the noise started to get on her nerves. “Unless you really just like the taste of ceramic.”

He started, but otherwise didn’t move. “Not polite to get seconds before a lady,” he grumbled. 

Natasha stood up and walked back to the stovetop. She scooped a few small ladlefuls into her bowl, just enough for what she thought she could put away. Once she was satisfied, the spy took the pot from the stove and a  _ very _ worn dishtowel back to the table. The pot went atop the towel directly in front of her silent companion.

“Seconds taken. You can have what’s left,” she offered. Natasha didn’t look to see what the man did, going back to her own stew on the counter. She finished off her renewed portion within minutes and set the bowl down in the sink. 

“Right then,” she said. “Thanks for the meal.”

“Don’t mention it,” Barnes replied reflexively. It was interesting to see what bits of casual conversation he engaged in and which were still locked away behind whatever HYDRA had done to the man. 

Natasha bent down to grab her rucksack, noticing Barnes’ watchful eyes on her when she stood up again. “I’m just grabbing my things. Not going for my gun,” she explained.

He snorted and bobbed his head. “That would be interesting to see since I’ve had it since the front door,” Barnes teased. Her pistol appeared from his sweatshirt pocket, set down carefully on the table where she’d been sitting before.

She raised an eyebrow. “That was a nice lift. And that’s saying something, coming from me,” she started. “You know I wasn’t going to use that on you, right?”

Barnes bobbed his head once more. “Sure you weren’t. Those three shots in the basement were for kicks,” he retorted. 

“You attacked  _ me _ .”

“You broke into my safe house.”

“The KGB’s safe house,” Natasha bit back, rapping her knuckles on the table. “You shouldn’t have even known about it.”

He tilted his head, chewing another bite of stew as he watched her. “That really bothers you, doesn’t it?” 

The groan that escaped Natasha wasn’t her finest moment of eloquent conversation. “I literally could not care less right now. I need a shower and about a day’s worth of sleep,” she admitted, staring helplessly at the yellowed ceiling. 

Barnes didn’t say anything, continuing to assault his food with the same fervor as when he first started. Good lord, when was the last time he ate? She had an odd feeling it was two days ago when he’d run out of the stocked goods here. 

Taking it as a sign that he was done talking, Natasha moved down the hallway and wandered into the first bedroom that she came across. Sparsely furnished was too kind a word to describe it. The bed itself was a mattress atop a simple slatted wood frame, nothing else. No other pieces of furniture occupied the room. 

Natasha once again regretted not looking for a bargain motel. At least then she could maybe trust the door to have a bolt lock. She started to dig around in her rucksack for her backup pistol when something made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Turning about, she tugged the .45 into a ready position. 

Barnes stood in the doorway, utterly silent in his approach to the room. One hand - his flesh and blood hand - went up in surrender. The other was offering her other gun back to her, the weapon balanced perfectly in his mechanical palm. “Didn’t want you to be defenseless while you slept,” he murmured, “but I guess I was worried for nothing.”

Her guard didn’t drop, but she let her gun hand fall back to her hip. “Thanks,” Natasha said simply. “I would tell you to keep it, but I’m kind of territorial with my things. Plus, you don’t really need it.” 

She took the pistol back and once again the pair stared at each other in silence. For the second time in as many minutes, Barnes was the one to break it. “Why do you trust me to not just kill you in your sleep? You don’t believe me that we know each other. I’ve tried to do it three times already since you’ve known me,” he asked. His voice was soft, uncertain.

Natasha paused, tapping her leg with the barrel of her .45. She didn’t have an answer, not really. “I don’t trust the  _ soldat _ not to take me out while I’m sleeping,” she admitted, “but I do trust the guy who didn’t choke me to death in the basement.”

He blinked rapidly, struggling to understand the nuance of her words, she thought. When he finally stopped, the ghost of a smile - so similar to the one he’d put on to be her ‘boyfriend’ - crept across his face. 

  
It was Bucky Barnes’ smile, she decided. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MEGA props for Meag helping me turn this from a ridiculous outline into something serious.


	4. Adagio

_< Step, step, turn. Jute, plie, en tende. Step, turn, dip_.>

Natasha’s mind flew through a decade-old ballet routine in a familiar rhythm. The matronly voice in her memory floated through her head, pulling her from the abyss of dreamless sleep into a collection of images and sounds entirely fabricated.

_< Natalia, you must be graceful, fluid. Do not let your arms jut out like branches. Bend in the wind and curve overhead. You are delicate, precise.>_

Her arms ached from practice. Muscles screamed for rest and Natasha felt her arms drop like stones to her sides.

_< Again.>_

_< Do it again.>_

< _Do not fail. There are no second chances during a performance, Natalia. >_

The Black Widow opened her eyes and blinked away the mirror walls, rubbed away the young girl in a leotard and bone-tired expression. Natasha Romanoff woke up in a rural town in New York, far from a dance academy in Russia. She flexed her hand and gripped the handle of her .45 next to her. There had been no pillow to put it under.

Sunlight streamed through curtain-less windows, illuminating the peeling wallpaper of the bedroom she was laying in. She pushed herself to rise and ignored her base instinct to return to sleep. If the sun was up, so should she be.

Natasha tucked her pistol into her waistband, smirking as she remembered the last time she’d held it there. Barnes had lifted it without her even noticing. _Barnes_.

Adrenaline shot through her spine, thrusting her even farther from the sleep her body cried out for. She was holed up with the nation’s number one most wanted man. The man responsible for more confirmed kills than the Black Widow, even. At least, that was the rumor.

Natasha thought it was probably fairly unlikely that the current _Soldat_ would be able to match her kill record now. He had the advantage of starting back in the forties. She’d only been following orders for just over a decade. Maybe two. Now there was the little business of Barnes fighting against all of his programming to discover who he was. Advantage, Natasha.

No, if they both reset to zero, Natasha had a feeling she’d claim the “deadliest assassin” title. She shook her head slightly, returning to a more relevant train of thought. The fact still remained that they were both on the run from their past crimes.

She crossed the hallway and poked her head into doorways until she found a tiled bathroom. Her commentary from last night still stood. Natasha might not have the luxury to sleep for a whole day, but she could at least take that shower. Her hair was hanging in greasy ringlets and she needed to scrub off three days worth of grime. Then she would be able to deal with breakfast and beyond.

Natasha closed the door, locking it behind her. Immediately she had to re-open it and go back into the hall and “her” bedroom. A quick dive into her rucksack and she could return to the bathroom. The bar of soap and two-in-one shampoo she retrieved went into the shower stall. Natasha turned on the water. Thankfully the bathroom had been designed with a glass shower stall or she was going to be shit out of luck. Any shower curtain originally stocked by the KGB probably would have more mold than curtain.

While the water heater worked its magic, Natasha peeled off her socks and jeans. The denim was more a second skin at this point, flipping inside out as she shimmied out of the waistband. She didn’t recall seeing a washing machine in the basement and it seemed unlikely that there would be a hookup in the upstairs rooms for one. Natasha didn’t look forward to sliding her jeans back on when she got out.

Speaking of getting out, she raided the small closet next to the toilet. There was a pair of serviceable looking towels that matched another hanging outside the shower stall - Barnes’ she presumed. Natasha stuck her hand under the spray and adjusted the knobs to coax more heat out. Finally, she shucked her shirt and bra. At this point, Natasha realized she had still been wearing Barnes’ henley. Oh.

In all the commotion of the cop showing up and in their mutual desire to eat, she hadn’t even switched back to her actual top. Natasha frowned at the red shirt before putting it on a separate spot on the countertop. She would give it back, obviously. _After_ she showered. If he hadn’t missed the shirt by now then she could afford the extra twenty minutes of holding on to it.

The water was warm enough to hop under now. Further prodding of the knobs didn’t yield anything hotter. Natasha relished the small victories; the fact that the heater had even functioned in the first place was a small miracle. She had warm water, soap, and a roof over her head. It was the bare minimum, beyond the obvious lack of a firearm aimed between her eyes.

Once inside the shower stall, Natasha closed the door on the rest of the outside world. Her goal was relaxation, rest, recuperation. Her mind refused to cooperate, jumping back to a thought she’d left behind yesterday. She had found Barnes, the object of Steve’s complete and unending focus. While Natasha had not heard from America’s dearest super soldier since parting ways by Fury’s headstone, she knew the man well enough to know if she called him, he would be here within hours.

Equally, Natasha acknowledged that she was now betraying his trust.

Was it worth it? She tossed the question away immediately. Questioning her decisions would get her nowhere. Yes, she was keeping Barnes a secret. But now was not the time for Barnes to shoved back into reality. SHIELD was gone. Steve would have no way to protect Barnes against the dozens of entirely justifiable charges that would be brought against him.

The man was an _assassin_. He killed more people than Natasha and all without any support from a legitimate government. At best he would be locked up for the rest of his life. At worse, Steve would be bringing his only true contemporary to his execution.

No, the Widow did not regret continuing Barnes’ escape from justice.

To regret the decision would be to regret her own self-preservation. At this point, Natasha could rely upon one single person: herself. Barnes could be strong armed into aiding her, she mused, as once again he was in just as deep as she was.

Her fingers worked at the knots which had found their way in her shoulder muscles. There was only so much she could do, but every little bit helped. Sighing, Natasha switched arms. How the hell had she allowed herself to become so out of sorts?

Several slow days sitting in bus depots and literally laying low to avoid law enforcement’s sight lines. A bitter humor rose up. That might have been a good part of it all. Still, Natasha despised feeling behind the eight ball, and she certainly wasn’t in front of it.

Hiding out in some podunk town out of the way in New York? That was doable. An acceptable risk of doing business as an ex-spy-turned-government-agent. The exhaustion of being under cover, that too was acceptable. Disguising the very core of her identity had been ground into her by the Russian government. She’d told Thor’s trickster “brother” that she wasn’t Russian anymore. Standing in a KGB safe house, even one as long-neglected as this, she wasn’t quite so certain that her statement rang true.

What sent her brain skipping and her concerns into overdrive was the delicate ballet she was now performing with Barnes. His questions had been shelved last night; it was easier to assume that he was lying or mistaken when both of them were aching for food and a truce. Now in the cold light of day neither of them could afford to simply charge forward without considering the other.

Fact: Natasha had worked solely for the KGB prior to turning turncoat and following Clint into SHIELD's service.

Fact: Natasha had no issues with her own mental fortitude or memory.

Fact: Barnes was a notorious assassin with little to no documentation describing the eighty year span of his career.

Fact: Barnes had been routinely mentally reprogrammed by his handlers between having his entire body cryogenically frozen for years at a time.

Lie: Barnes had worked with the KGB - and by extension, Natasha - in the past.

Natasha nodded to herself as she pooled shampoo in her palm. That was it. Decision made. She should trust her intuition and chalk Barnes’ knowledge of the house up to pure dumb luck.

_Shit_.

Fact: Barnes knew the location to a secure, _untouched for decades_ KGB safe house.

Barnes’ asserted history was back in the “Questionably Plausible” category, shuffling Natasha’s entire mental deck of cards in the process. Something didn’t add up. No matter how she chewed at the question, the answer eluded her. The logic simply wasn’t there. Either some key piece was missing - an information leak from back in the day, perhaps? - or Natasha’s own worldview was altered to an unrecognizable point.

The water was chilling, the heater’s tank exhausted of even the lukewarm supply. Natasha lingered, feeling the water run down down down her head, her spine, her legs to pool around her feet. Her hands curled into fists as she returned once again to her childhood ballet studio.

< _All of life is a performance, Natalia. Play your part. Play well enough and you will not question how your role fits into the rest of the troop._ >

Her heels touched together, separated. She moved through the basic positions slowly, purposefully.

< _Play your part, Natalia. Smile when you must. Cry when you must. Become your role in the production of life_. >

She exhaled as her heels returned together.


	5. Day Trip

"I stole a car." Natasha didn't bother with pleasantries when Barnes entered the kitchen. She had been surprised to find him still not out and about when she exited the bathroom. One of the hallway doors had been closed though so Natasha went about her own remaining routines without further investigating.

She was now sitting on the kitchen counter, one eye peering through the gap in the valence and the curtains in the kitchen. Her .45 sat in pieces next to her as she carefully cleaned and oiled each working part. Barnes watched her, examining each piece with a calculating stare. "What does that matter?" he questioned.

Natasha wiped away the gun oil on her fingers on her jeans. They were already a lost cause. She made a mental note to add a thrift shop to her checklist of destinations. "It matters because it's parked in the driveway. We need to dump it," she asserted. Her cleaning complete, she worked through the motions to reassemble her pistol.

"I thought you would be leaving," Barnes replied. It had taken him a moment; his eyes were still distracted watching her fingers working each bit of firearm back into its proper place.

"Do you want me to?"

He once again hesitated before answering. When Natasha clicked the clip into place it stirred his attention finally to her face rather than the weapon in her hand. "We're both wanted. It stands to reason that our working together would be unexpected," he said. Barnes articulated each word carefully. Was that the hint of an Eastern European accent cropping up? The man was from _Brooklyn_ for christ's sake.

"So that's a no," Natasha said coolly. "Perfect. I had a similar thought. Staying together also guarantees that the other isn't going to go off to the authorities with our location."

" _Da_."

She slid off of the counter and headed towards the hall once again. His eyes were on her; she could feel them. "Let me get my bag and we can head out. The sooner we get rid of the car, the better I'll feel. And we can get more food since someone ate an entire month's stock in two weeks."

Natasha would have felt better if he'd responded to her joke. The silence dogging her footsteps ate at her, prompting yet another cycle of infernal questions of whether it was _really_ smart of her to trust an international assassin.

She slipped her pistol into her shoulder holster and shrugged a jacket over the whole ensemble. Her bag she emptied almost entirely, leaving behind a box of ammunition and her final set of clean under things. Maximizing available space made the most sense when she knew they'd be coming back here. The only significant supplies remaining in the rucksack were her multitool and a pair of spare, loaded clips.

Barnes appeared in the hallway, hoodie pulled on and hand tucked away into his pocket. He wasn't smirking like he had been last night. The dark circles under his eyes looked no better. Natasha shouldered her bag and led her silent shadow to the stolen car. "You can sleep on the way into town if you want to. Gonna be a lot of walking today to get back here," she called over the top of the car.

He responded with a grunt, hauling the passenger door open with his free hand. It took a moment to coax the car back into life. Barnes' watchful stare continued even in the car. Natasha's hands twitched; the whole thing felt like an examination she'd forgotten to prepare for.

She had to get a grip on herself. Her composure took a few minutes to regain, though she hid behind a casual smile to disguise her sense of unease. Deception was an easy crutch to lean on. "So," Natasha started speaking without a specific plan of where she actually wanted the conversation to go to. "Do you always eat stew or does the Winter Soldier have a bigger menu of options?"

Stew? Of all the topics in the world, she had to settle on food.

Barnes blinked, frowned, and turned to look out the window. "I'm not much of a cook. A long time ago I think I cooked more. Had a family and we all swapped chores. If that's even true, I couldn't say," he said tersely.

Natasha whistled through her teeth. "So that's how it's going to be."

He turned back to glare at her. "That's how what's going to be?"

She laughed. It irked him, ruffling his feathers. "Getting all dark and moody when a question about you comes up," she replied.

Barnes chose not to respond further, which only proved her point. The drive was completed in silence. The radio was forsaken when Natasha discovered the car's owner preferred the horrendous abominations that were eighties hair bands. Changing the station only invited the risk of something even worse coming on, and they weren't _that_ far away from the WalMart parking lot that Natasha had chosen to ditch the car in.

"Wait," Barnes growled, his hand metal fingers pressing lightly into Natasha's shoulder. She had her directional on, about to pull into the parking lot. "Cameras?"

Her foot lifted off the gas as she considered his point. _Shit_. This wasn't a drop-off in the middle of the night. Cars streamed in and out of the parking lot, sunlight glinting happily through windshields. The security cameras - shitty as they may be - wouldn't have nearly as tough of a time noting a redhead and dark haired man slinking away from an abandoned car.

The car behind her honked; she had the right of way to turn into the parking lot. Gritting her teeth, Natasha jerked forward into the parking lot. "We'll deal with them," she said. Confidence came from determination, right? If she just _said_ everything like she knew what she was doing, then Natasha couldn't fail.

"Besides, I don't know about you but I need more clothes," she added. A thrift shop would have been ideal - shirts would be a couple bucks each instead of ten and up, same with jeans - but she would take what they had access to.

Barnes grunted in agreement, so it must not have been the worst plan of the century. Natasha pulled into a spot towards the rear of the building, along the side where the soccer moms liked to park so their carseats wouldn't get too hot. They would be seen on fewer cameras this way if Natasha couldn't find a way to deal with them. Less exposure, more safety.

As soon as they got out of the car, Natasha winced. She hadn't considered how much Barnes stood out. Even with his hands in his pockets, he couldn't quite pull off the "careless citizen" appearance. He was too tense, eyes darting and head twitching to consider every angle around them. Useful in a combat situation. Not so useful in a rural New York superstore.

Placing a palm on his back, Natasha spoke to him in a low voice. "Keep that hand out of view but try to not look like you're about to detonate the bomb strapped to your chest."

"Can we just get moving? I can worry about myself," he retorted. His expression didn't soften but he did relax his shoulders slightly, easing out of his near-militant stance.

Being mid-morning, the soccer moms were out in full force, giving the pair dirty looks when they took a bit too long at the entrance to the store. Natasha eyed the camera over the door. It was now a necessity to delete the footage. Even without a full glimpse of their faces, any half decent fed could make either of them. Or both.

"Supplies first, then cameras" was the plan they mutually agreed to. Barnes refused to take the hand cart as doing so would leave him without any means of actually picking anything up without using his painfully mechanical hand. Natasha had to carry it on the crook of her elbow, scowling when they ended up selecting a container of hand wash laundry detergent and more canned goods.

What was it with Barnes and sodium-packed food? She was glad to get to the women's clothing section where she could put down the cart for a moment just to peruse the available pieces in the clearance piles. This wasn't the time for fashion choices. Anything that was her size and able to be moved in was stuffed into the cart. The pant selection was horrendous and Natasha gave up as she could only find a single pair that would _probably_ fit her.

The men's' section had better offerings despite not doing a damn thing to flatter her figure. Fashion could take a back seat to practicality. Once the feds weren't on her ass then Natasha might be able to get her custom tailored jeans again. Maybe.

She would have to call her selections good enough. With the way that Barnes' feet were tapping the ground, she only had a few minutes before he would part ways and risk venturing on his own. He had that "fight or flight" look edging onto his face. "C'mon, let's wipe the feeds," she said quietly. Weaving their way through the clothing aisles, they approached the front end of the store.

Loss prevention was usually headquartered at the front of a store to better cut off any potential shoplifters. With the way American laws were written and enforced, shoplifting wasn't illegal until the individual stepped out of the store with unpaid goods. This was good news for Natasha; the LP offices were past the checkout lanes. They could wipe the feeds and get out without spending undue time checking out.

A miserable youth stood at the counter they approached, obviously texting as he looked down at his smock pocket rather that the customers in front of him. "Hey there," Natasha said. Her smile was roguish and flirty, perfect for keeping the kid's eyes on her and not on the shifty man staring single-mindedly at the LP office.

Jumping, the cashier dropped his phone back into the pocket and started grabbing items from the belt. "Hey, hi," he stammered. "Find everything okay?" She had to give him credit, he recovered and fell back into the usual store script quickly enough.

"The clearance racks are a complete mess," Natasha remarked idly. "I still found what I wanted though." Her smile faltered as she recalled the Tweety Bird oversized shirt currently being bagged. Not exactly what she'd wanted, but it would do.

Apologies flowing, the kid remained distracted enough that he didn't pay any mind to Barnes slipping away. Even with her attention focused on their plan, Natasha barely noticed him winding through the mini arcade to the marked office doors at the end of the row of checkout counters.

Natasha made a big show of asking if it was alright to not use the store bags and put everything in her bag instead. Each item was unbagged and re-folded tighter to fit into her rucksack. That ate another few minutes, enough that by the time Natasha was taking her receipt Barnes had appeared by her side.

"Thank you _so_ much," she cooed, twinkling her fingers in farewell to the cashier. As soon as they were out of earshot, she murmured under her breath to her partner in crime. "Any issues?"

One shoulder moved in a shrug. "Guy's going to have a killer headache when he wakes up but the footage is gone. We have five minutes to get out of view. Figured it would be better to cut it as close as possible instead of wiping the whole day," Barnes replied.

Smart. An entire day of footage missing wasn't as explainable as an equipment glitch erasing a half hour. "Did he see you before you knocked him out?"

Barnes chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "Is your SHIELD filled with amateurs? Of course he didn't see anything. Probably will think he fell asleep on the job," he retorted.

" _My_ SHIELD doesn't exist anymore thanks to _your_ HYDRA," Natasha snarled back. "Or did you forget that was why we're buddy-buddy all of a sudden?" She rolled her shoulders to better situate the rucksack on her back. Her holster pressed into her skin where the straps overlapped with the bag's.

"Here I was thinking you just were fond of my company," Barnes shot back. They returned to silence. Natasha's gut twisted. Why on _Earth_ did she feel guilty for giving Barnes as good as he gave?


End file.
